Crimson

This crisp Monday paper, the headline in font twelve
tucked by yet another Iraq story and plunging neckline
the words shriek out
a girl jumped, died.


At Grand Pardi, Kemps Corner down by Malabar hill
Where the air smells different,
Palms, brass- glass, couture, the swish of limousines
Did they stop, halt a while
a girl jumped, died


She stood a while on high parapet
beat constable and tea vendor watched aghast
their “go back! Stop now”
babbled in strange tongues’
bounced off her grief cocoon
this girl who jumped, died

did no one ever tell her
its ok, time heals; that’s life, not a cliché
she was well bred too,
conservative daughter of a honorary consul
a 23 year old MBA from UK
this girl who jumped, died


while she lay arms akimbo
seeping red patch on cobblestone gray
they went from slammed door to door
did you know her? Did she visit you?
this girl who jumped, died


“ Not us. We were fine with it”
“ it was all good, really okay”
the boy’s family much later says.
Well-lawyered lines for the papers,
to erase the crimson stain,
close yet another breaking story
this girl who jumped, died

~